


Larger than life

by UlsPi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Orchestra, Classical Music, Crowley Has ADHD (Good Omens), Crowley's Bentley (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Jewish Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Old Age, Soft Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:54:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25594606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UlsPi/pseuds/UlsPi
Summary: Ezra Fell, a Julliard dropout disowned by his family, is hired as a PA and live-in carer of Tony Kraehstein, a larger than life conductor of New York Philharmonic.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 62
Kudos: 98





	1. Britten

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MostDismalFeldsparkle (Most_Dismal_Feldsparkle)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Most_Dismal_Feldsparkle/gifts).



> Hello and welcome! Crowley here is written as an homage to Leonard Bernstein, hence his name. Bernstein's brother once referred to him as being larger than life, but smaller than death, but we'll see about that.  
> https://youtu.be/XclKeS0vaiM this is Bernstein being his utmost Bernstein.  
> https://youtu.be/ZcA-KuvHeVE this is Teodor Currentzis at his utmost Currentzis, since Tony can be that too, but mostly he's a good ol demon who wouldn't harm a fly. 
> 
> As for the dedication, Ezra is much inspired by the impeccable and aching tenderness of BestDismalFeldsparkle. My dear and esteemed author, please do me the honour of accepting my humble gift. I do not require any response from you, this is just a sign of my admiration. I hope you're alright.

"Ok, look, I won't lie to you, this is not a job of anyone's dream," Bea began, settling behind their unnecessarily big desk and resting their Doc Martens on it. 

"Well… it's… working with Tony Kraehstein…" Ezra replied, no longer certain.

"Your enthusiasm is admirable," Bea said without much admiration, but with an air of someone who had been through all five stages of grief multiple times in any possible order. "Listen… I know, he's… He's a great guy, actually," they admitted, playing with their expensive pen, "but he can be such a pain in everywhere! Ok, I need to get more professional!" Bea sat primly. "Listen, Ezra, Mr Kraehstein has ADHD, and it has to be respected. Your predecessors thought it was too much effort to only ever bring a certain brand of mineral water, cooled to a certain temperature and so forth. They thought he's a diva - and he is. They would have accepted a diva easily - but not someone genuine and kind and neurodivergent. You need to understand and respect it. You're to make sure he has his lime Perrier cooled to 20 degrees Celsius, glass bottle, no plastic. More importantly, you have to see that he eats, we had a few… accidents recently because of low blood sugar. He fainted right off his podium. It was both tragic and hilarious." Bea chuckled fondly. "He has to sleep. He has to take his meds. Sometimes he thinks out loud - and it might be useful for his work. I can't manage his quirks  _ and  _ his career. His contract with New York Philharmonic ends in two years, then it's Vienna for him - and for you, if you last this long." Bea smiled like someone without any idea of a smile.

"I'm… hired then?" Ezra asked, uncertain. He had barely said a word, after all.

Bea's face softened. 

"Ezra, you're a Julliard dropout, your family are ugly pricks who think being gay and doing arts is just too much, you're a talented student, as your mentor informed me, when she stopped crying on my shoulder - and I loved that jacket." Bea chuckled. "Tony will like you, and you will have a home, a job - and a lifelong whiplash from being in Tony's orbit. Which is to say, you're hired. Let's get you to the man."

Bea ushered rather stunned Ezra out of their office and into a vintage Bentley. The car started moving without anyone driving. 

"Had to warn you about it," Bea said from their phone. "Tony knows the founders of Tesla. They made him a robocar. No one drives this car, apart from Tony. When Tony is drunk, he might caress it and say he's not worthy to drive her either… Tony! Yes, me. Who else will be calling you? Precisely, everyone calls me, because you're a menace…" Bea sounded harsh but spoke with unmistakable fondness. "No, I'm not driving past that deli to get you that sandwich… but I'm bringing you the man who might do it for you… No, no, don't worry, he's a sweetheart, a real angel." Bea winked at Ezra. Ezra blushed and looked out of the window. 

New York, when he first arrived here, seemed just the place he wanted to be in - far from home, which is London, far from his sanctimonious conservative family, full of possibilities. Back then, two years ago, Ezra was full of hopes and aspirations. Back home his only redeeming quality, in the eyes of his parents and siblings, was his talent for music. Despite the fact that the rest of the Fells didn't have any talent, anything extraordinary about them, they were still more accepted than bookish, plump,  _ soft _ Ezra who hated sports, hanging out with friends and being  _ respectable _ . They agreed to send him to Julliard only because they expected him to return famous, rich, with a girl on his arm. Ezra had never expressed any romantic interest in girls, but that could change, that was just a phase, of course, just like his composing. If he absolutely _ had  _ to play music, he needed to be a pianist or… Actually, they didn't know much about music, but certainly Ezra wouldn't embarrass everyone with his  _ silly tunes _ no one could whistle to. Music was for the church and was barely tolerated even there. 

When Ezra decided to come out to them via Skype (They couldn't be expected to visit him, now, could they? They had their private jet for much more important things, like Gabriel's stag party.) he thought he'd be scorned, but nothing more. He was immediately cut off, disowned and practically thrown out to the streets the next moment. Professor Ela, who adored Ezra, took him in and swiftly found him a job - with Tony Kraehstein. 

Now, Tony Kraehstein was a living legend. He was nearing his sixties, but had boisterous manners all the same; he was a gay icon, a patron saint of lost manuscripts (Tony was Jewish, so he couldn't be a saint, but well, one silly journalist called him so), the resurrector of forgotten Baroque composers, the best interpreter of Mahler alive (Tony was nuts about Mahler). Resurrected Baroque composers were handled by Tony's favourite mentee - Ana Device, while Tony, being larger than life, never went farther than Mozart. Tony needed a mega-orchestra, over-the-top music of Beethoven, Schubert, Mendelssohn and of course Mahler. He needed Copland, Shostakovich and Britten. 

Ezra attended some of his concerts, admired the way Tony conducted - sometimes just his ridiculous hips and peculiar movements of his head and sometimes the sways of his arms and hands which reminded Ezra of a drunk eagle during a mating season, not that Ezra had ever seen such a thing, but it seemed fitting. Now he was going to bring him  _ that  _ sandwich from  _ that  _ deli…

"His standards of kosher are non-existent," Bea was informing, and Ezra turned to them, having realised he got somewhat lost in his reverie. "But he insists that he is observant, so try and sort it out with him, and anyway, even if you get him the food he's asking for, you need to make sure he ate it. If you have to stick a protein bar into his mouth on the way to the stage, it's alright. I know that the first violin carries some around… There we are." 

Bea left the car, Ezra followed. "Don't worry, the thing will lock itself just fine."

Carnegie Hall was towering over Ezra, and he took a deep breath. 

"Don't worry. It's not so bad when you get used to it."

Bea walked inside. They walked very fast, and Ezra struggled to keep up. He checked his bowtie nervously. 

"He's going to mock your style," Bea casually informed, which of course did nothing to calm Ezra's nerves, but he had to… had to keep up.

Tony was rehearsing Britten's Simple Symphony, the fourth movement, to be precise, aptly named  _ frolicsome finale _ . He clasped his hands behind his back and did something… patently strange with his body, undulating, swaying, rocking his head and nodding at an appropriate section when necessary. He was wearing very,  _ very  _ tight black jeans and an equally tight turtleneck, its sleeves rolled up to reveal bony forearms. 

"Stop!" Tony yelled suddenly. "Frolicsome, ok?  _ Frolicsome.  _ I need more… frolicking here. This… this is very liquid, what you're playing. This is Delius. I love Delius, but let's give the old queer what he's owed. Once again, from the top."

"Actually… how about lunch?" Asked the second oboe.

"Oh… right…" Tony scratched his head. His hair used to be redder than the autumn leaves, and now he had a few stylish grey streaks in it - but, as he turned to the left and showed Ezra his sharp profile, he was still a boy, someone so full of energy, of life, of unashamed curiosity only a child could possess. "I didn't have breakfast… oh… I'm not feeling so well." Tony stumbled down from the podium and was swiftly put into a chair by the first violin. A protein bar was unceremoniously stuck into his mouth. 

"That's enough," Bea hissed. They grabbed Ezra and pulled him along. 

Ezra noticed the damned Perrier bottle by the podium and swiftly took it, so when they reached Tony, Ezra was offering him the water.

"Am I dead?" Tony asked, looking up, then at the bottle in Ezra's hands. The protein bar, of course, fell from his mouth, but the first violin calmly opened another one. 

"No, dear boy," Ezra said comfortingly. "Please, do have a drink."

"But it's… lukewarm…" Tony whined. 

"I know, my dear, but you need to get some water into you. I'll bring you another bottle in a jiffy."

"Jiffy? Who are you? Angel?" Tony squinted. He had light brown eyes with bilateral coloboma and at the moment looked like a very pissed and very old serpent.

"Yes, he is. This is Ezra Fell, he's your cupbearer." Bea rubbed Ezra's back encouragingly.

"Oh… I needed one?" Tony squinted again. The first violin shoved the protein bar into Tony's mouth and said:

"Bite, or so help me."

Tony bit. Someone in the orchestra giggled - and was stared at most disapprovingly. 

"Alright… let's… regroup in an hour," Tony waved his arms. 

The musicians didn't need to be asked twice, and before long the only people left were Tony, still in the first violin's chair, Ezra, still offering the water, and Bea, staring daggers. 

"Please, dear boy, have a drink," Ezra asked again. "I know it's disgusting, but it's water, and you need it. Once you're no longer in danger of fainting, I'll be on my way to bring you something fresher… and… perhaps, a sandwich? What do you like?"

"He's a natural," Bea said to Tony. "You're a natural," Bea said to Ezra. "I'm returning to my office. Ezra will take care of you." 

They quickly loaded Ezra with a contract he had to sign, the keys from Tony's flat, the list of Tony's favourite foods and quite a lot of cash. Then they left. 

"So…" Ezra put his load down on the floor and offered the water once again. Tony obediently took a sip and winced. "There. You're such a dear, Mr Kraehstein…"

"Tony. Or Anthony." Tony corrected, squinting at Ezra. "You're very… you're sure you're not an angel?"

"Certain, my dear."

"But like… you have blue eyes - and that's some wicked blue you have there - and curly white hair - and you wear tartan… Ghastly."

"Tartan is stylish, my dear fellow. I'm going to bring you whatever you need, Tony."

"Nah, nah, nah. I'm coming with you. Need to get to know you, right?"

***

Tony wanted to drive. Ezra said that it was out of the question. Tony pouted. Ezra frowned. Tony beamed, and Ezra beamed back but stood his ground.

"You're one of Ela's, aren't you?" Tony suddenly asked with unexpected softness. Now that they were outside he wore sunglasses, but the warmth he radiated couldn't be stopped by anything, least of all two dark lenses. "The one… the one who was kicked out by their family."

Ezra flinched. 

"None of that," Tony's warm hand was on Ezra's shoulder. "I'm glad Bea hired you. Ela told me you write music. I'd love to hear it sometime." Tony smiled. It was something small, a barely there twitch of his thin lips.

Ezra stared at him. How many young musicians would have killed for such an offer. Ezra, on the other hand, opened the back door of the Bentley and nodded. Tony obligingly climbed inside, Ezra followed. For a few moments they just sat there. 

"I can't… I can't use my professional proximity to you to enhance my career," Ezra said finally. "What music I wrote… When I had to leave Julliard I gave it away to a friend of mine, who's a hopeless composer but…"

"You WHAT?" Tony took off his sunglasses. 

"Gave it away," Ezra repeated quietly. "He's hopeless, that man, but… he can afford Juilliard and perhaps, he'll get better." Ezra risked looking at Tony. 

"He must. You are an angel, and I must be dead. That deli," he commanded the Bentley and the car started moving. "Where are your things? I'll tell Bea to bring everything to my place… They did tell you that you need to live with me, right?"

"I don't remember," Ezra said shyly. "I… I was too… surprised…"

"Alright, no need to talk now. I'll text Bea… and I'm going to call you angel, if that's ok."

"It… is. Thank you."

"Don't know what you're thanking me for, but we need that sandwich."

***

At the deli, despite the busy hour, Tony was greeted like an old friend, and  _ that  _ sandwich was ready before Ezra reached the counter. 

"And for you, kid?" An old man asked kindly. 

"For me?.. I… I don't know. Same, I guess?"

Having settled with their food at one of the very few tables, Ezra prepared to enjoy his meal - he'd never refuse a meal, he wouldn't! But Tony stared at his sandwich in confusion. "Do I… really? Not hungry…"

"Dear boy, you have to eat."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty eight. Why?"

"Well, I'm more than twenty years older. How come  _ you  _ call me  _ dear boy _ ?"

"I suppose I just call everyone who can be described as a boy this way… I'm sorry, I must be inappropriate."

"Oh shush! No one has ever called me their dear boy… Even my mom called me  _ my child _ ."

"An… apt description, I presume…"

"Sort of…"

Ezra took a bite of the sandwich - it  _ was  _ very good, so Ezra allowed his lids to drop, so that visual impact didn't disturb his savouring - and moaned. 

"Bloody hell! Are you trying to seduce me?" Tony stared at Ezra the same way he had stared at the sandwich. 

"Sed… seduce you? My dear fellow, why would I do that?" Ezra realised all too late that his protestations could be read as agreement and blushed. "I'm so…"

"Nah, shut up! Don't apologise.  _ Now  _ I'm hungry." And Tony swallowed his sandwich whole, or so it appeared to Ezra. 

"Not only you move like a snake, you eat like a snake too!" Ezra giggled and wiggled. 

"Serpent, ain't I? The serpent of Broadway… oh, that sounds good!.." The old man from before put three bottles of Perrier in front of Tony and ruffled his hair. 

"That much salt in paprika… waste of salt and of paprika." He chuckled and left. 

"That was very ageist of him, don't you think, angel?" Tony unscrewed the lid and of course downed half a bottle in one go. 

"Angel?"

"Angel of Broadway and serpent of Broadway. What would you say to Bubba's apple cake?" Tony was giggling. It was like a distant tinkling of the bells, or the brook tickling the rocks on its way and laughing and making the rocks themselves laugh.

"I'm an angel, I shall not yield! Also, you're the serpent of the Lincoln centre, my dear." 

"Doesn't have the same ring to it. One should always embellish the truth - unless one is Mahler and can be just that precise and convincing… Peculiar fucker, he was…" Tony pensively stared out of the window - then gazed at Ezra. "My mom would have loved you, you know? Say, Ezra, where the hell have you been about forty years ago? It was very impolite of you to never show up!" 

Tony waited as patiently as he could for Ezra to finish his food. Afterwards they returned to the rehearsal.


	2. Weber

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just fluff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for a short update. I'm fighting a nasty writer's block.

Tony owned an obnoxious penthouse. It was modern, it was sleek, it was angular, in short it was just like its owner in every way. Ezra didn't like it. It was organised, it was orderly, it was clean and completely dustless. Actually Ezra couldn't possibly grasp how Tony managed to keep every surface so… sterile. 

All those open empty spaces, dark colours, the sheer modernity of it all made Ezra feel so old he wondered how he hadn't crumbled yet. And with all that excitement he missed the moment Tony walked into the penthouse himself carrying all of Ezra's luggage. 

"So, you!" Tony called. "You go upstairs. There are some bedrooms there, apart from mine. I'm not territorial, and I have a recording tomorrow morning, so just pick one, I'll pick one and we'll see each other in the morning."

Tony walked up the sharp stairs, his sharp hips swaying every each way, his red and grey hair furious, Ezra's luggage still in his hands. 

"Oh dear…" Ezra rushed after the old conductor. "You… you really shouldn't…" Ezra tried to take his things from Tony but was huffed away.

"ADHD, not… not some old and arrogant  _ master _ . Unless it's your kink. Then, sure." Tony continued his ascend. 

Ezra picked the bedroom nearest to that damn stairway.

"Perfect!" Tony dropped the bags and… oh good lord, he sauntered to the end of the corridor. "I'm here, so if you have nightmares or something… Good night, angel!"

Ezra's bedroom was bigger than his room in his childhood home. It had a stunning view of Manhattan, too, which Ezra spent the better part of the night admiring. 

He remembered coming to New York for the first time, remembered feeling that he  _ could make it here _ , just like Sinatra sang. 

Ezra had spotted a grand piano downstairs earlier, and he cursed, as he walked down and sat by the beautiful instrument. Now, playing would awake Tony - and perhaps half the building. But sitting there, ghosting his fingers over the keyboard, that was good, that was biblically good, absolutely stunning. 

Perhaps just as stunning as the old Hoffmanesque man upstairs. 

Ezra sighed. Tony  _ was  _ stunning, and Tony  _ was  _ old. He was also chaotic, endearing, a whole Cole Porter worth of a song, that man was. 

***

Ezra woke up to the music so loud, he could feel every bass note in his body. Rather worried, he rushed downstairs - to find Tony dancing on the treadmill. 

He was facing Manhattan, he had zero knowledge of how to use a treadmill, and to make matters worse, he was singing along. 

_ When you feel lost and about to give up _

_ 'Cause your best just ain't good enough _

_ And you feel the world has grown cold, _

_ And you're drifting out all on your own, _

_ And you need a hand to hold: _

_ Darling, reach out  _

_ Reach out  _

_ I'll be there, to love and comfort you, _

_ And I'll be there, to cherish and care for you. _

_ I'll be there to love and comfort you. _

_ I can tell the way you hang your head, _

_ You're without love and now you're afraid _

_ And through your tears you look around, _

_ But there's no peace of mind to be found. _

And on and on he went, the ridiculous kapellmeister Kreisler.

"Tony… Tony, this isn't how you're supposed to use the treadmill!" Ezra yelled over the music.

"No?" Tony turned the music off but continued to hop and jig on the treadmill. "But I watched a YouTube video!"

"It must have been something humourous…" Ezra had sincerely hoped he'd be teasing Tony, but instead it turned out that Tony genuinely had no idea about workouts, which must have been bad, seeing as Ezra knew absolutely nothing about workouts. 

"Really? But the choreography! The effort…" Tony became distracted, slipped and fell over the treadmill.

"Oh, my dear boy!" Ezra hurried to lift Tony up. Oh… oh… the lovely, hot, sharp weight of him against Ezra's soft body. It was lovely, far too lovely to be real or last for some time. "My dear… you're clinging on to me!"

"Am I?" Tony looked around himself and came to the same conclusion, however, unlike Ezra, he had no problem with anything. "Apparently I am… is that a problem?"

"I don't know. Just last night you were all rebellious about the idea of you being in need of any help!" Ezra grinned like a bastard. Tony straightened up and stepped back - right on the damned treadmill, so he landed back in Ezra's arms not a moment later. 

"Seems destiny itself brought me here," drawled Tony. He was ridiculous and irresistible. 

Without much further ado, Ezra hoisted Tony on his hip, like an overgrown toddler, and reached out to turn the treadmill off. 

"You're no fun!" Tony proclaimed. He had no intention of climbing down from Ezra, though.

"You need to eat your breakfast, then take your meds, then you have a recording session, then another rehearsal of Britten." Ezra reminded. 

"So no fun. All work and no play!" Tony climbed down - finally! - and sauntered to the kitchen.

The following hour proved that Tony could make a delicious meal out of anything while Ezra had to fight the coffee machine. 

Tony rolled his eyes and made Ezra a perfect cup of tea. 

"How… how do you even…" Ezra puffed.

"I'm British, too," Tony explained vaguely. 

He moved too fast for Ezra, so before long they were in the studio and Tony was conducting Weber's  _ Invitation to dance  _ \- and dancing he was. Each movement he made was to the point and far too ridiculous to be so. It was unfair, really. 

Yet there here was, graceful, slow, fast, something in between, in charge of longful violas and careful, then mischievous oboes, of a sudden presto, out of seemingly nowhere… He was kapellmeister Kreisler - naughty and lovesick, and Ezra thought in terms of Hoffman pining - he wanted to be the one that old, hopping, dabbing, dancing conductor to pine for him. It would have made him feel so much better… He stopped himself. He had to bring some more lime Perrier for Tony, he had to take care of him, which was more than any paramour would have ever got to… Oh, but he was there to make sure Tony lead a  _ normal  _ life. 

"Does he date?" Ezra asked Bea. They winced.

"He doesn't. His partners can't really handle him. They think he's a celebrated conductor and composer and has to be supreme in bed - but he can get up in the heat of things to write something down, and most people are very disapproving of that…" They shrugged.

Ezra could never be righteously angry at his relatives or luck, but the mere thought of someone dismissing Tony for his love of music deserved all the anger Ezra had in him. 

"Isn't it lovely to inspire one's lover to write music?" Ezra asked, clenching his teeth and fists. 

"Oh…" Bea gazed at Ezra. "You think?"

"What could be better?" Ezra muttered through his teeth, watching Tony dancing like a debutante at a ball where Goethe had to be in attendance. 

"You're a good man, Ezra Fell. Tony is lucky to have you." Bea concluded. 

The rest of the day went by in a fog. Ezra made sure Tony ate, rested and didn't drive anyone particularly crazy. Far it be from him to stop Tony from driving anyone reasonably crazy. If anyone in the orchestra thought that Ezra might smoothen Tony's angles, they were in for a big surprise. Tony's angles remained there, just as Ezra remained there with a bottle of lime Perrier.

And every morning Ezra would wake up to a different reassuring song, and every day Tony would need a reminder to eat, drink, move, look around. Ezra had never known a nobler mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony sings "Reach out, I'll be there" by Four Tops


	3. All of the Bachs

About a month into their  _ arrangement  _ (Tony eats and sleeps and takes his meds, Ezra does whatever the fuck he wants) Ezra received a musician's Moleskine and an expensive pen; he was pushed to sit by the grand piano and was told to  _ make the fucking music. _ Tony would not be persuaded otherwise, no, no, no, Tony wouldn't eat if Ezra rejected the gift. 

And about two months into their  _ arrangement  _ (same, but no way Tony disturbs Ezra while he was working on his music which was meant to be at night, but Tony demanded attention often, oh nevermind) Tony pushed a glass of wine towards Ezra who was writing down something that might have proved to be a symphony ( _ A Schubert's tune with a Gershwin touch _ ) and coughed meaningfully.

"Dear boy, I'm working."

"Am I still?"

"You're never still, my dear."

"No, still your dear boy? You know, I could have been your father."

"I wouldn't have survived childhood."

"Rude!"

"But you are," Ezra looked up at Tony, handsome, lovely, boisterous Tony. "You are my dear boy. What can I do for you?"

"We've been together for two months, angel!" Tony proclaimed and waved his wine glass in the air, splashing a bit on the carpet and ignoring it.

"You make it sound as if we had been in a relationship," Ezra countered, returning to his work in order to avoid being noticed blushing.

"We are, though. Perhaps it's not romantic, but still, you're the closest person to me… and I like it. No one lasted that long." Tony leaned on the piano, so long, so lithe, so thin, so beautiful…

"Alright, all those people before me, they were awful and I won't hear a word about them!" Ezra proclaimed and took his wine. 

"You don't get it! It's been years since I agreed to a PA… Bea tortured me into agreeing to you."

"Tortured?"

"Tickled."

"Oh, my dear boy, you're in trouble!" Ezra launched at Tony and tickled him into mad, breathless laughter.

And when both of them were aching with laughter, Tony hugged Ezra, buried his nose into Ezra's neck, ghosted his lips over Ezra's hair…

"I'm so lucky to have you, angel! I'm so lucky…" He pushed back a bit to look at Ezra. "Back to work, angel. This music won't write itself, right?"

But Tony couldn't ever be far. Restless, unfocused Tony would go and make a huge supper, of which he wouldn't taste a bite, yet he'd watch Ezra enjoy the meal he had prepared. And Tony could never get a hold of linear time or anything that wasn't wiping every surface clean, so that his housekeeper just groaned and accepted the money without having any work to do. 

"Can you do something to him so he's… a bit more normal?" A musician asked one day. 

Ezra wasn't kind, he wasn't an angel, he was destiny the way the Greeks made it look - unforgiving, stubborn, irritated. The musician lost his job almost immediately: Ezra was attentive, Ezra knew a bully when he saw one, he had been raised by the bullies after all. Bea praised him and winked. Tony barely noticed a change. 

Ezra learned to see who in the orchestra relished a chance to work with someone as talented and celebrated as Tony and who wanted to work with Tony just to mention it on their resume. Ezra was relentless, Ezra wasn't an angel, Ezra made sure to get rid of the latter as fast as he could. 

Oh, of course he was polite, he was eloquent. He made every hypocritical, ableist, manipulative bastard weep their thanks to Bea and Ezra when they were being sacked.

"You're enjoying it far too much, Ezra Fell," Bea remarked with admiration.

"I don't want any toxic arses around Tony. I won't allow for it. I thought you wouldn't either."

"Oh, of course, but I never wanted to be a good person…"

"It's all relative," Ezra replied dismissively. "I want to be a good person for him. He's Kreisler. He's music. He's mad. He's Mahler. Why would I be a good person for anyone else?" 

Bea stared at him in awe, and he just walked out to fetch another bottle of cooled Perrier.

Many things began to make sense now. New York was once again something magical, a place of power and opportunity. Ezra didn't want to hurt anyone, he wanted a purpose, and he had been given one. It was actually funny how the famed conductor remained clueless about each and every person in his life who tried to coax him into something… And his  _ angel _ , so pure, so innocent went to great lengths to ensure Tony's safety and blessed ignorance. 

As a child, Ezra loved reading about knights and miraculous escapes. He would imagine himself as a damsel in distress, he desperately wanted to be rescued, but having been rescued, having been protected by Tony, Ezra found himself just as knightly. He knew better than to search for dragons, he knew better than to be calmed by a pretty face and a smile. If Tony was angular and difficult and unpredictable, Ezra was predictably ruthless. Before long Bea found themselves the lesser evil - there was no way someone could piss Ezra off and remain in the orchestra. 

One night, when Ezra was working on his music, he heard, then saw Tony walk down the stairs, worn out pyjamas and a look of worry so hopeless Ezra didn't know what he could do. 

"I… I know what you're doing. You're protecting me. I know all those people are… mercantile. Manipulative. But they… they like the talented me. The brilliant me. They just think I'm easy to trick, but I… I can train them to be better musicians and what does it matter, if… if they think I'm so gullible? After all, I know their intentions, right?.."

Ezra couldn't stand it, not a word of it. 

There he was, music itself, old, boisterous, generous, so lonely. 

"I don't care what you knew. They never saw you." Ezra stood up. "I'm afraid I can't tolerate it, dear boy."

Tony nodded and silently returned to his bedroom.

All the books Ezra had read ended just as the happiness was secured, but Ezra's instincts had always told him that one truly knows someone when one can guess their loved one is asleep by their breath. There were no outside noises in Tony's penthouse, so Ezra had learned quickly, and he could wager his life that Tony wasn't asleep. He knocked.

"Who's there?"

"Really, my dear? Who can that be indeed?"

"Angel, don't scare me and come in."

Ezra did. Tony was sitting on his bed reading the score of Beethoven's Ninth.

"Would you like to hear what I worked on?" Ezra asked. He wasn't ashamed or embarrassed. Tony's best quality was that no one in their right, crazy mind would think he could mock someone. He was appreciative, he was attentive, he truly believed that a new Mozart was just over the rainbow, behind a corner of a building, behind his door. 

"Sure thing, angel!" Tony was immediately on his feet and rushing to Ezra. 

Now, the music wasn't hard in itself. What was hard was trying to put the longing, that easy and essential longing into the music - they were both lonely, they were both peculiar, strange, queer. Ezra had discovered the feeling of being at home with Tony. 

It was overwhelming at the start; however, after a few weeks it was essential. Tony  _ was  _ Ezra's home, Ezra's essence. Was it love? Ezra had a feeling that  _ love  _ was a very small word for that home-ness. Love was for novels, for other people, for those who hadn't tasted rejection, spite, betrayal. Tony had tasted it all and had barely noticed it. Ezra had made a notice of every single case. He might have been mocked, betrayed and rejected, but he wouldn't have ever allowed for something like that to happen to Tony.

Ezra played his piece. It was slow, yearning, just the piano, but Beethoven himself would have envied that longing, the weight of that confession. Beethoven himself wouldn't have put into his sonatas as bravely as Ezra did, that there, with Tony splayed on the piano, was Ezra's home, Ezra's homeland. Ezra cared for Tony with the same passion the soldiers used to go to war with. Ezra cared for Tony so much, there was no oxygen left for him to breathe. Once, Ezra had wanted fame and recognition, but as he was playing for Tony he thought that fame and recognition mattered only if all of it was for Tony. He'd have written music for Tony to wake up, to eat, to take his meds, to wave his arms, to clasp his hands behind his back and let the orchestra take over - he was powerful like that, Tony Kraehstein, he'd forge a hundred people into one glorious voice and step back to let that voice sing and be itself.

"This is beautiful, Ezra," Tony said after a few moments of silence. "It was… it was home." Tony shook his head wistfully. "I felt home listening to you. It's very good. I'll talk to Bea, you need to get it to Carnegie Hall…"

Ezra stood up from the piano and rushed to Tony. 

"Tony… oh my dear boy!  _ You _ are my home, you are my music. I don't want anything but to take care of you, and…"

"No!" Tony was suddenly pushing Ezra back, walking backwards, covering his eyes. "No! I don't want pity. I don't want tolerance or patience… I… I want to be loved for what I am, and… I'd marry you tomorrow. I'd marry you now. It has to be… has to be irrelevant… no… regardless… no… You're young and brilliant. You'll leave me. You used me… No!"

Ezra stared at Tony. 

"My dear… You got it wrong." He walked back to the piano, grabbed his notebook and, opening the window, tossed it outside. "I don't care. I played for you. It was only meant for you, no Carnegie Hall, no deals, no fame, no glory, just… you."

Before he could finish, Tony was hurrying to the door. 

Ezra tried to follow but…

But Tony was standing in front of him, short for breath and holding Ezra's notebook. "Don't do this again, angel. I'm not worth it."

Ezra shook his head.

"You're worth this and more, my dear."

"No… I'm ridiculous. I'm old. I should have met you years ago. If… if I give in now, there will be no way back for me. You'll be called… a boy toy. A trophy husband. And I want your music to shine regardless of me. I'll… I'll send it to a friend, I will… yeah, that's what I have to do. Yes."

Tony was walking backwards, his eyes on Ezra.

"My dear?"

"See, therein lies the rub! I can do all or nothing. It's… it's hard."

"No, it's just too damn fast for me, Tony."

Tony stopped.

"I can either give my heart or keep it to myself. There's no middle ground. If it's too difficult for you, I'll talk to Bea first thing in the morning…"

"No! No. No. I'm not leaving you. I'll be whatever you want me to. If I'm just a man on your arm, then so be it, I…"

"Not like that. Never like that." Tony shook his head. 

He went up. Ezra watched him as he did. He had been indecisive,  _ rational _ his entire life, although it had never paid off. 

"If…" He began, his voice high and strained. "If only I had you… Then everything else is… alright."

Tony stopped and looked back.

"You… you just quoted Goethe's secretary to me." He smiled.

"I did. And he wasn't Goethe's secretary. I want to have  _ you.  _ I want  _ you. _ "

Tony turned on his heels. "I… don't know what to do with this. I thought I was ready for a rejection, I've never considered… this. I don't know what to do."

Ezra had had a lifetime of rejection. Of being mocked and laughed at for who he was - soft, gay, naive, silly, boring. He had abided by those opinions, he had tried to comply, to obey. He had considered his family to be the most powerful, most influential people in the world. 

All this, until he came by Tony, old, peculiar, ridiculous, lonely. Tony who was… who was home. 

Ezra scurried to Tony, cupped his face. 

"No, it's… I'm  _ home  _ with you."

"You are?" Tony asked, restless, cupping Ezra's face. 

"I am. And… and if I need to prove it to you - and I need to, I know, - I don't want anything."

Because Tony was the music, he had been Britten and Weber. He was the tenderness of Delius now. He was Bach… He was Bach, Ezra thought, kissing him. He was Bach, and Ezra would wipe out entire empires of arrogant, presumptuous people just for this one, just for this man, older, more experienced, kind to a fault. He'd do anything for him.

Tony would circle him when they were out just the two of them, and Ezra would feed Bea some lies to feed to the press. Tony would give him notebooks and encourage him to work. Ezra wanted to burn down every person who tried to pry into Tony's heart, because he wanted that heart all to himself and himself alone.

Music was great, it was, but Tony's music was the best. Tony was music after all. Ezra felt as if he had been composing when he was fetching Tony's water. Ezra was composing all the time, but he only wanted it to be heard by Tony. No one would have understood him any better. Tony recognised the music in him the moment he laid eyes on him in the morning. He  _ heard _ Ezra, so the least Ezra could do was cradling his wonderful friend, lover, whatever anyone wished to call it, and whispering sweet nothings, and being young and strong and protective.

Ezra loved food, wine and lazing around. Tony indulged him. Both Tony and Ezra knew that any moment Tony could get up and demand it that Ezra returned to his music - and Ezra would! He'd turn his wonderful old boy into a legend, a myth, anything - just to keep him safe, immortal, creative.


	4. Salieri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. I've had writer's block. Still having it. So sorry.

More often than not the sight that would haunt the days of Tony's colleagues would be Tony's head on Ezra's shoulder. Ezra's lips would be pressed to Tony's forehead, as the famed maestro dozed off. Ezra's permanently alert gaze would fix anyone who'd dare as much as look at Tony at his most vulnerable. 

People gossiped of course. Were Tony and Ezra lovers? Were they partners? Were they husbands? There were simple but unmistakably wedding rings on appropriate fingers, after all. Ezra didn't care - or at least he pretended not to. Neither Ezra, nor Tony spoke about it - to each other or to anyone else. There would be bottles of water, hidden glances, gentle, almost friendly kisses every now and then… Oh, the fiery  _ looks  _ Ezra would give anyone who'd catch them being intimate, being close! Tony would lean onto him, Tony would be old and tired for once, Tony would be paper-thin, fragile, peculiar, strange… Tony would be like the mad hatter out of the tea party, until Ezra brought him some tea - sickeningly sweet, nourishing, awakening. 

Yet there was another sight, the one saved for Tony alone - the sight of Ezra dropping his head on Tony's shoulder back at home, in their bedroom, in their own  _ tea party _ .  _ Oh darling, you shouldn't call our trysts like that. Trysts? I love you, angel, and you are my husband. We have tea parties, in our bedroom, sans clothes.  _

Tony loved the way Ezra giggled at that. Tony loved the way Ezra sought comfort and acceptance in Tony's arms - Ezra was always welcome there, comfortable, at ease, in peace, with Tony's hand on the side of Ezra's face, with Tony's lips on Ezra's forehead.  _ Now look at you, angel, my avenging angel, seeking my protection while I could never harm a fly - and I do want to harm every fly, every life form that has ever hurt you. Love you. _

It echoed through the rooms, across the grand piano, well into their working weeks and their Saturday rest. Tony would look up sometimes, lost in a dream of his, free from the very notions of age and time, while Ezra would yearn for wings and flaming swords, for suits of armour, for the power to bend and shape the world according to the peculiar will of his friend, his master, his husband… How lovely it was, to call Tony his husband! Tony was giddy with it too, but Ezra cherished the title as if he had been called by an angel of the Lord to come forth and protect, steer away from every harm. 

There was prose, there was poetry too. There were melodies, entire symphonies about the way Tony made breakfast or baked bread. There was so much music. Ezra tried to deafen it, ignore it, but Tony would hear it, would always hear it and would push paper and a pen towards Ezra and tell him to write, to compose, to do something.

"I can't take care of you, though, when I…"

"Fuck me! You're a Mozart, angel. You're Bernstein and Gershwin. Write it. Put it out. Would you like me to perform it?"

Ezra would swallow and just oblige. He didn't want to talk about  _ it.  _ He didn't want to endanger his happiness. 

One night - it had to happen at night, all the time, the sheer Mahler of darkness, the sheer Beethoven of the bustling city outside, the sheet heartbreaking Chopin of staying by the piano when Tony had been in bed and waiting - Tony came down and… He never demanded anything from Ezra, but that night he did. 

"It has to be performed, we both know it. Will you do me the honour of letting me perform it?" Tony leaned on the piano and stared at Ezra, the unsettling, truthful quality of his gaze that Ezra loved so much but was loathing at the moment. 

"I will be called your protege. Your favourite. They'll smear your name, mine too. I chose you, my darling and…"

"No! I won't accept it. Let no Salieri silence a Mozart."

"Dearest mine, you've played Salieri just last month…"

"He was a handsome bugger. A good composer. I'm speaking mythologically. I want you to perform your music. What can I do?"

Ezra found himself bubbling with anger and bitter regret. He stood up and walked over to Tony.

"What can you do? You can stop being that fucking impossibly talented man I've fallen in love with! I will not be a protege of yours! I will not be another person to have used and abused you!"

"Angel, it's different! You did nothing wrong - and even if you had…" But Ezra kissed him to stop that terrifying rant. 

"You won't silence me with your kisses, angel," Tony whispered, pushing Ezra away. His hair was a mess, tousled, still wet, red and silver, diamonds and rust. "For  _ you _ , I'd do more than I have for anyone else. What should I do? I want your name all over Broadway, your concerts sold out, your… No, I won't let you let you kiss me to silence me. What can I do?"

Ezra looked up at him - the hair, the flaming eyes, the wicked smile, the crow's feet, the thin mouth, all of him - all of him Ezra's, all of him at Ezra's command. 

"I will not accept any help from you, my dear. I have to make it myself. On my own."

Tony didn't even blink.

"Then leave me. I'll wait for you. I'll say nothing. I'll let you make it on your own. Is it what you want?"

Ezra wanted to be angry. How dared Tony suggest that either of them could make it separately?

"You gave it all up for me, didn't you?" Tony asked. He had that air about him, a painful twist of pain and pride.

"I did. I don't regret it."

"Then do it!" Tony stepped, no, slithered across the carpet to Ezra. "You have me, you have my orchestra, all that I am."

"But it's you, Tony! You, not me! I won't be seen for what I am, if I have you! Why can't you just leave it? Let me be…"

"No. You deserve more, angel. You won't be my trophy husband. Leave. Leave me. Forget about me. If you want to remember me when you make it big, then I will be here. If you don't, then so be it. I'm not waiting until you grow old by my old side and resent me for never having made it!"

"So, it's over? I should have known better!" Ezra rolled his eyes and waved his arms in the air before he realised he was playing along. He was swallowing the bait, he was being let go, set free. He took in the sight of his husband - messy hair, wrinkles, endless limbs. He knew the taste, the smell, the touch of every inch of his husband. He knew the silky feeling of Tony's hair and the inside of his elbow, knew the way Tony scrunched his nose when he was particularly displeased. Knew all of him, knew him by heart…

"Go, angel. I'll be waiting. I always will." Tony smiled. "I'll miss you like crazy, so… make it big and make it quick. I'm old, angel, I can't wait for you forever."

***

Ezra managed to make it as far as the lobby of the building. The moment he stepped out of the elevator, he could feel the weight of each step.

Stay and be his sugar baby, his trophy husband, his second best.

Stay and show them all how good you are, how talented.

Stay and remain in Tony's bright shadow.

Stay and let Tony remain there, nearby, supportive and cheering and utterly ridiculous. 

Stay and never be your own man.

Stay and be Tony's own man, the only one worthy of the title, the only one to cherish his rambling.

Stay and abandon all your dreams.

Leave and abandon the most basic, most human happiness. 

Ezra approached the exit. The doorman asked him something.

Or stay and stay and stay and stay, Tony's voice said in Ezra's head. Stay and be mine and my husband and my friend and my partner and my Mozart. Who are you, demanded Tony in Ezra's head, to let all those loud and silly and hateful people decide what you do and when and with whom? Stay with me, stay with me, stay with me.

Ezra stared at the doorman. He was asking whether he should call a cab. Ezra couldn't really understand him.

Stay and be mine. Stay and be yours. Stay and be. Stay and be. Stay and be.


	5. Chopin

He stepped back into their apartment quietly. Somewhere inside that whale of open space Tony was playing Chopin like a lovesick fool he was… Ezra wanted to roll his eyes or to feel some faux anger, but instead there was just the aching tenderness, because there he was, his old, tender, beautiful boy, he was sitting by his masterpiece of a grand piano and playing Chopin. 

Ezra sighed. He wanted to cross the room, like he had done so many times. To touch Tony's neck, to have Tony lean into the touch, to ghost his lips over Tony's hair, to hold him across the chest, to whisper something silly and marital into those perfect ears…  _ Hello, my dear, hello, my beautiful, hello, my darling, hello, my love. I'm so glad to see you, I'm so glad to have you, I'm so glad to find you here, I'm so glad to be yours… _

Ezra took a few careful and silent steps over to Tony and held him, nuzzling his hair and ears. "Hello, my dear, my darling. I was lonely before you, I have never been lonely after we met. Damn my pride, damn my doubts, I need you so much, my wonderful Tony."

Tony covered Ezra's arm with his hands, those big, long, ridiculous hands. "I hoped, angel… whatever you need, however you need. It'd take my own death to free you of me, but I don't want to be free of you…" 

He leaned back on Ezra's shoulder, and Ezra wasn't even drunk, but he kept whispering into those ears, so thin, so pink, so fragile. "I can't leave you, I can't leave you, I want to stay, stay, stay, stay, stay…"

_ They got married one Sunday morning, they walked downtown, they celebrated in some unassuming restaurant. Ezra wondered where they'd spend their honeymoon, and Tony smiled. That smile! That grin, so unlike those close-mouthed pouts and half-smiles Tony used on his musicians. They had a week, and the entire week they spent walking around the Met. Ezra talked, Tony made noises. Ezra was young as New York, Tony was old as New Amsterdam. Ezra held him close, Tony held him close. They walked around, joking and laughing and scandalising everyone. Bea had to settle a few things with the press, but they didn't seem to care. Ezra loved Tony, Tony loved Ezra. They held hands, they went to Strand, they sat on the floor together, reading a Melville's biography. They ate in small places. They ate alongside hurrying clerks and every sort of people. There was tomato soup and there was broccoli soup. There was pizza and there were the greasiest burgers. There was rain and there was music. Tony smiled, Ezra smiled back.  _

_ "The only thing is… alright, I'm older, I go too fast, but I have you now, angel, and I have no intention of not having you." _

_ "Darling, we're married now." _

_ "Say it again, angel." _

_ "Darling, we're married now." _

_ "Fuck it, I'm so lucky. I love you." _

"Tony, my love, I want you to perform my music. No… I want to stay…"

Ezra hadn't even finished his sentence when Tony held him in his arms, held him and onto him. 

"I hoped, angel, I hoped and I hoped and I hoped…"

Tony swirled him around the room, oblivious to his age, oblivious to everything that wasn't Ezra. Even Ezra was oblivious to everything that wasn't him. 

"I love it, that you're young, that you're mine, that you're talented, that you're heavenly…"

They had discovered once that from their apartment to the Times square it was just enough time for the Rhapsody in Blue to reach its final and most glorious crescendo. So they'd walk there sharing headphones… "Like we're both young, in love, together, what can I do for you, angel?"

Ezra would get a silly souvenir, a milkshake, a snog, kilos of M&M's plus a sweatshirt, plus a pair of jeans, plus some books that just happened to catch his attention.

"I hoped you'd come back, Ezra, I did, I was good, I prayed, I hoped…"

"Oh, my darling… who am I to fail you?"

Ezra thought of his music. Ezra thought of Tony's hands weaving that music into life, into Tony's own unbreakable, invincible optimism. Oh, his incredible darling, he'd die an optimist, a believer, a dreamer. 

"You're the young one here, my love, you know."

"I'm the powerful one, angel. I'm the one to make your dreams come true. Or just come."

"Darling, don't be naughty."

"Oh really?"

"Oh never, of course. Stay naughty, my love."

They'd ask him to tame Tony, they'd never stop, but Ezra found himself knowing the ultimate truth - Tony was the only normal, the only real person. 

"You take me, you perform me, you conduct me, you, you, you."

The inside of his elbow, the warmth of his chest, the even breath of his sleep. Maybe, maybe, maybe, Ezra thought, he had been staying here in New York, waiting for Ezra to come, come, come, like a drip, drip, drip of the raindrops. 

"You, angel, are my Mozart. You, angel, are my Delius, my Chopin, my Mahler. You're my Mahler."

Ezra watched Tony perform Mahler, watched Tony melt into that magic, that splendour, that heavy glory. Ezra watched Tony drown in it and emerge from it. 

" _ So a voice within me keeps repeating you, you, you _ ." 

Tony sang Cole Porter to him.

Tony played Mahler to him.

How do you describe love? Because what Ezra felt and couldn't stop feeling was love, love, love, forgiving, patient, tolerant, quiet. 

Love, love, love. 

He'd bring Tony his water and he'd feel love in return. What did he have to match the love given in return for a bottle of water?

The inside of his elbow, the breathless wonder of his ecstasy, the soft skin of his neck, the soft hair of his thighs.

Ezra thought back to the doorman. Was there freedom without belonging with Tony? Was there music without him?

The inside of his elbows, the inside of his knees, all those secret little angles, corners, hidden places of Tony's body - and Ezra knew them all because Tony was his husband, his to know, his to pleasure, his to keep safe. The tiny creases and wrinkles of his stomach, the way his black clothes accentuated his litheness, the way his heavy wristwatch made his forearms look fragile.

"Stop waxing poetic about me, angel. I can do it just the same!"

"Oh, do indulge me, my dear."

"Well, you have the softest lips and neck. When I kiss you there I feel like I'm trying to eat a cloud. You have round shoulders, I adore your round shoulders. Rodin would have failed to capture them, but I'd like to see him try."

"You're an idiot, darling, and I love…"

"Shut up! Love is a four letter word. The word I'd use for you… it hasn't been invented yet… it might take centuries to say it. It's long and complicated."

"Don't be a poet, love, or I'll cry!"

"Fuck!"

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are appreciated beyond reason and measure. Thank you for being here.


End file.
